Out With The Old
by WeAllFlyHigh
Summary: Russia was not a new nation. They had died many, many times before. More often than not, they awoke alone in the tundra with no sign of civilization. They were not alone this time. Set in the same universe as Falling Down, but can be read alone.


Russia was not a new nation. They had died many, many times before. More often than not, they awoke alone in the tundra with no sign of civilization.

They were not alone this time.

A struggling engine roared and voices of men rose outside. Russia listened until they were sure that the slurred voices were not due to hearing damage. The men were drunk. It was dark around them. There was a weight over their legs and an elbow pressed against her cheek. They could smell the heavy tang of copper in the air.

They were surrounded by corpses. Russia lay still.

It was the midst of summer. Yet a winter storm roared inside of Russia. They had known these dear traitorous corpses. When they had lived, when they had laughed. Oh…she had loved them.

Russia freed their legs. They tried to lift their head but was stopped by a tugging on their scalp. They placed a hand on their head and used the other to free their hair. It was streaked with blood. They rolled onto their knees. They swayed, still weak in their new body. They pulled the nearest, the smallest, body to them. They cradled a face in their palms. They were just a little boy.

They were supposed to be safe. Russia had been told that was why they had to be taken away. But they had been told a great many lies before. It should not hurt so much to discover one more. And what did it matter in the end? They were not her future anymore.

The truck stopped. Voices were raised. The commanding officer was very displeased. With a clatter, the back of the truck opened. A jeering face looked in. The man froze. His face twisted into shock and horror. It must be terrifying to humans to see their dead rise. And they had been so thorough judging by the blood on their torn clothes.

Russia rose to her feet slowly and moved towards the man. He trembled. She stumbled over her Tsar's corpse.

"Good morning comrade. Do you have a coat to spare for your motherland?"

"A…An…Annnn," the man stuttered.

Another man appeared at his side. He too froze in fear.

Russia lowered herself to the edge of the truck. There was not much room in the truck with all the bodies. The man leaped back as she slid to her feet. One of them fell to the ground. This did not go unnoticed.

Several men drew their guns, a few screamed, one fainted. She ignored them all. She focused on her surroundings. They were surrounded by trees. It was still too dark to see if anything might be lurking between them. The muddy road they stood on was the only thing that split the wilderness. Unless they moved the Romanovs without her knowledge, this had to be Koptyaki.

She turned to their commander. She recognized this one, Yurovsky. He was truly dedicated to the revolution. He was pale as snow. His fists shook, but he was still standing. She smiled a him. "Your men are not very…," she searched for the right word, "brave."

The man saluted her. "Forgive them comrade. I will have them disciplined." Nyet, her soul hissed. I will forgive nothing. They have desecrated what was mine. They have spit upon my dignity. They are spineless monsters.

She nodded her head and smiled. Her men were always so accommodating to her wishes. So passionate and strong. She did not understand how any nation could take pride in their people when they fell so short standing next to hers.

The commander had two men pull up some wood for her to sit upon. The rest stood around silently. Their eyes nervously darted to her, the truck, and out to the surrounding woods. It was as if they thought her presence would summon the whole of the world's dead.

One man approached her timidly holding out a flask. She accepted it gratefully and took a swing. Champagne. They had been helping themselves, she thought bitterly.

She craned her head back at the commander. "You will bury them?"

His mouth opened and closed with a click. "They must not be recognized." Russia hummed in agreement.

"So why do you hesitate?" The man blinked at her. She smiled indulgently. This one must not have any talent for things more complex than simple shooting. "They are already dead. What does it matter what is done now?" One of the men laughed. They lunged at the bodies. The corpses were dragged out and the men began to fumble through their clothing, stealing souvenirs away. The commander looked to her and back at the men aghast. He shouted and struggled to bring them back to order. Let him struggle, Russia thought. I will not have any part in this.

Yurovsky eventually managed to get the men back under his control. He had them load the bodies onto carts and took them away.

With the men gone, Russia was left to her own thoughts. She held out her legs, flexing her feet. She pointed her toes. Then rolled her ankles. She dropped her feet, her whole body moving slightly forward. Locks of hair fell forward. Her breath shuttered. Slowly she grasped the strands between her fingers. She entwined and twirled them. Then she slowly let them slip away.

Slip away. Gone. Out of her hands. They were dead. Beyond pain and suffering.

They must have suffered greatly. Her clothes were ruined. Her… Russia squeezed her eyes shut. They died for her. And now she, Anastasia…

No Anastasia was gone. This body was now Russia's.

She had never known one of her bodies before its death. She wondered if she would smile into the mirror and see her reflection or would she see Anastasia? Would this body haunt her? Would she awaken screaming, knowing intimately how this body had died? She had been shot before. She had been stabbed. She had been to Ipatiev. She could imagine it so clearly.

Would she even be able to serve her people in this body? Her hands rose up to clutch her chest. She bent over. Her breath quickened into short pained gasps.

No!

Russia lunged to her feet. She searched widely. Her eyes caught on a bayonet left behind. She lurched towards it. Her legs still weak, gave out. She reached out and drew the bayonet to her.

The world was changing. Her people needed her to guide them. She would not be chained down by the remnants of the Tsars. She would not be left in the past.

The edges of the bayonet bit into her fingers as she plunged it into her chest. She felt the body shutter. It would be long cold when the men returned.

Be at peace little one. I will trouble you no more.

* * *

AN: Hi. Hi. I wasn't planning on publishing this right now but it's New Years Eve and that seems fitting. So goodbye 2019, you weren't a bad year, but God damn you were not kind.

I wrote an alternate ending to this one. If you're interested in reading it, please message me or leave a review. Fair warning, it's not as sad but it's not happy. You can thank the beta for that.


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